Roach Before the Moss
by Elizabeth Collins
Summary: A series of drabbles/one-shots about Briar's life. Some scenes are made up but based on canon facts. Events not in order. Written for the TPE Summer Challenges.
1. Freedom

Eatin' isn't a time for talkin' with the mates. Mostly we just wolf down what we've got, usually too fast, and then the younger ones get sick. We tell them to stop copyin' us and they clean up the mess.

Tonight I was bushed. Me and Slug were tryna keep our lamps open as we gave the kids their food, stumblin' and trippin' like tumblers - only they stay on their feet. In the middle of our cursed rounds, I sat smack in the middle of the room, grabbed a bowl of beans, and just sniffed. (Usually at meal-break my body don't have the time or patience to taste the blessed stuff, so before I gobble, I smell it.) Slug was lookin' at me like he wished he could do that too, and kept on goin'. He scraped the last bit from the pot for Weevil, 'cause the bottom has the most grease, and shoved it over, bitter-like.

"'Anks, Slug," Weevil said with gusto. 'Ese beans is scrumptious!" It was a word he learned from a noble lady passin' by and he always blushed crimson when we caught him usin' it. I guess it just slipped, 'cause fat loosens your throat.

"Hey, Weevil," someone whispered. "The Thief-Lord's here."

We all went quiet, starin' at the entrance with keenness. It was almost awe, what we felt.

He walked in slow, takin' his time. His tin-disguised-as-silver tooth shined in the torchlight. "Roach. Slug. Show me your goods."

Slug jumped and pulled a brass ring from his breeches, tremblin'.

"That's all you got?" He stared at it like it was a chicken to his peacock of a ring, which was also brass. "Roach?"

I showed him my garnet earrin'. He stared, raised an eyebrow, and plucked it from my fingers. On his blunt boots, he turned quietly to Weevil. With a forbiddin' look in his eye, he motioned him to step up.

"Weevil." He paused. "You let a lady enchant you, eh?" Long and hard, he watched, dragging it out. "Getting attached means you've left the circle. Getting attached means you've let your loyalties stray."

Our mate cast his eyes down, lookin' horrible, like he was goin' through some kind of torture.

"Well? Do you love her?"

He didn't answer.

The Thief-Lord glanced at him for a second, and walked out of the openin'. "I knew it."

'Twas then I wanted to break from the circle. I had a secret too.

But I stayed.


	2. Scorching

Even after two other times it still nearabout killed me for weeks. I rubbed my hand, wonderin' if I was ever gonna get outta this place. It was the hour for rest, and I lay alone under a curse of heat. The other boys thought goin' outside would relax them, so I just gaped at their silliness and stayed here. I knew they would come back soon, as I could hear their bleatin' laughter gettin' louder. My eyes were open when some kid burst through the door. He didn't even wipe off his sweat.

"Hey, Briar!"

I shut my eyes and didn't answer.

"You stealing again?"

Frustration and anger forced them back open. "No."

"Oh, really? I saw you taking Tom's pin the other night."

I hated liars, especially tell-tales. "Now why would I care for a blooming pin?"

His hackles went up. "I know you took it."

"I have self-respect." In the Lightnings, we'd always had it, and told other snivelling gangs so.

"You _took _it." His mouth was folded down.

My chest was tight. "Either shut up, or own you're lying." I was burning to hit the stupidness out of him and I almost did. I'd already sat up.

"I won't."

That did it for me. I could still think, and I knew what I was doing. My head hurtin' with Lakik-touched heat and rage, I walked up to him and punched him across the face.

He ran away with a vengeance and for the thousandth time I wondered when I was gonna leave this place.


	3. Travel

If Sandry was here, I thought, grinning, she'd be admonishing these new fashions with the fierceness she secretly possesses. As for me, _I_ don't mind them. I sipped my wine, tolerating it only because it made me immune to certain plant poisons. Otherwise I wouldn't be drinking the blasted stuff. In these places, you never knew what you'd find. I looked around at the gardens and the weeds that had sneaked their way in and shook my head. "More pastry please?" I asked a nearby waiter. He nodded and I winked, adding, "Extra cinnamon would be a brilliant touch." Idly wondering how much longer I'd stay at the inn, I calculated the due fare. It was quite a sum; I barely noticed when the moon set for dawn. Rosethorn would call me a stray seed if she saw me like this. I smiled sheepishly. She and Daja would have me in a carriage in the blink of an eye. I hadn't noticed this, but they were partners in certain things – they could snap you back to the real world when you were too caught up in leisure. I sighed evilly, crossing my legs. Too bad I didn't bring any chaperones with me.

An orchestra was arriving and seats were being moved back to make way for them. As they started up, tuning their instruments, I ordered icewater and sat back to listen as the sun set slowly and the air became stuffier. In the distance I could smell the warm richness of brie and the heady scent of lilac. Sandry would be intoxicated with all this, I chuckled to myself. She'd thoroughly enjoy it. At first the strains of mandolins were relaxing, but I couldn't get rid of the gaping need for company, however much I stayed here. I lay in my seat, lolling as the mosquitoes swarmed around me. With heat and sluggishness the orchestra dragged on, pressing my windpipe. Every new song made me scowl still more deeply. Suddenly I really couldn't stand it anymore – the dizziness, the humidity, the sounds. I left feeling frustrated at the crowds, and the sudden unexpected wave of illness.

I walked down the paths to the inn, feeling sorry for myself and thinking thoughts that only went around and around in a circle of despair. Where were people when I needed them? Why couldn't I find a place to land myself? Why was I constantly moving on? I kicked a pebble, thinking of Rosethorn and a burst of anger made me yell. Why wasn't she here? She'd just let me go off on my own way, knowing this'd happen. Knowing I'd be stuck here. I rounded the corner that would take me to the inn with tears of fury in my eyes. Grinding my teeth with livid exasperation at me, at my sisters, at Winding Circle – I swiped them away. The gravel flew up under my feet and I pivoted awkwardly. I cursed and glanced at the inn haltingly, expecting to see grimy walls, an unswept stairway, and open windows. It was completely in order. Even more furious, I ran up the stairs to my room, closing the door.

"Mm, Briar, oh please – "

I smiled and shushed her, putting my finger on her lips. She whimpered and complied. I covered the candle with my hand, and all was dark.

She left eventually, saying the innkeeper expected her. I watched her go, and once again the lump in my throat formed. Is this what travelling alone is?


	4. Fresh

A dark woman pushed through the flimsy door in a flurry of snow. Her hair was sodden, and her brown eyes were dull.

"Sweetling," she whispered to her son, lying on the straw near the hearth. "How are you feelin'?" Her voice was warm and deep, and it rolled over the boy like the hot caramel he smelled in the streets.

"'M okay, Mama," he said hoarsely, reaching out his arms. "Can I have a hug?" He shivered and convulsed.

A tear traced a clear line down her face. "Of course. We're the only ones we've got." She took him into her ragged shawl carefully, rocking him.

"Mama, what about those men you come home with? Haven't you got them?"

"They - they bring us money, dear. They're not our family, and they never will be."

"So they're Bags?" he said innocently, looking up at her.

She chuckled softly. "You could call them that, I guess. I brought you some herbs from the market. Lemongrass and ginger." She took them from the iron hold of her freezing hands.

The boy in her lap watched his wonderingly, his eyes feverish. "I got myself a new scent," she added as brightly as she could. "I was gettin' sick of my old one." She turned her head in a mockery of the noble ladies and lifted her stringy hair. Deftly she sprayed it on the back of her neck. "Sniff."

Gingerly, he brought her head gently in his hands and breathed. It smelled like a wonderful rose garden, like Lakik's own flower. The boy had always loved the legend that Lakik the Trickster had a carnation in his buttonhole.

"Mama, it's beautiful," he said earnestly, and lay sleepily back on her bosom.

"Dream your fever dreams," she whispered, settling down on the splintery floor with her boy in her arms.

Briar would always remember that sweet, tacky scent. To him it was always fresh.


End file.
